


The Knowing Makes It Worse

by Lauralot



Series: Alexander Pierce should have died slower [3]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Age Play, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Blow Jobs, Daddy Kink, Emotional Manipulation, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Flogging, Hand Jobs, Humiliation, Implied/Referenced Brainwashing, M/M, Physical Abuse, Psychological Horror, Sexual Abuse, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-29
Updated: 2014-05-29
Packaged: 2018-01-27 01:13:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,130
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1709594
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lauralot/pseuds/Lauralot
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>No is a bad word and invites punishment.</p><p>Or, Alexander Pierce is a very bad man who delights in manipulating and degrading the asset.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Knowing Makes It Worse

**Author's Note:**

> Written for [this kink meme prompt](http://marvel-cinekink.livejournal.com/751.html?thread=48367#t48367): _Instead of being rough and impersonal with him, when the Soldier behaves, the Soldier gets his own comfortable room and bathroom, with stuffed animals and bubble bath and video games and warm pajamas. If he's very good, Daddy will let him eat expensive grownup food at the table or even out at a restaurant. He gets his hair washed and gently brushed, etc._
> 
> _Of course, there's a dark undercurrent, he must show his master how much he loves him in very specific ways, "no" is a bad word and invites punishment (so does trying to refuse any of the nice stuff). Crying is manipulation and Daddy won't have it._
> 
> I've never written anything like this before and now that I have I am probably going to hell. But I hope you enjoy it!

**She stares intently at the door**  
 **Listens for his footsteps**  
 **She knows exactly what’s in store**  
 **And the knowing makes it worse**  
\- “Sleep,” Stabbing Westward

  


“Target terminated.”

If the asset were giving this mission report at the base, Pierce would want details. The time of death, the number of shots fired into Nicholas Fury’s body, whether or not anyone saw the asset coming or going. He knows this though for all he can consciously remember, the mission briefing this morning was the first time he met Pierce.

The knowing is deeper than memory, implanted within him down to the core and fused as strongly as the metal arm.

And in the same way, he knows that because this report is happening in Pierce’s home, in the dark of night and away from other eyes, his master will not care about any information beyond the basics. His words are a formality and a foregone conclusion. The asset does not fail.

 _Daddy,_ he remembers in the second before the man motions for the asset to come and sit on his lap, _won’t have failure._

He settles into Daddy’s lap, wrapping his arms around his daddy’s shoulders with a rush of trust and affection from that knowing place deep inside him. It must have been taught; he can’t naturally comprehend feelings any more than he can naturally act autonomously. But he can’t think of these things now, because he’s Daddy’s little boy and Daddy doesn’t like it when children act too grown-up. “Was I good?”

Daddy presses a kiss to his cheek and he leans into the touch, smiling. “You were very good,” Daddy says, and when he speaks his breath makes the boy’s hair blow around a little, tickling his face. “You were perfect, my little snowflake.”

He kisses back, holding tight, then lays his head on Daddy’s shoulder. “Perfect?” he breathes. He wants to be perfect. He wants his daddy to smile at him and brush his hair and tell him how perfect he is.

Daddy’s hand is on his chin, tilting his head up. “Perfect,” he repeats, and he strokes the boy’s face, just below the eye. When he moves his fingers away, they are stained with dark makeup. “But you’re a mess, silly boy.”

“Sorry, Daddy.” He licks his lips. Daddy’s hand is close to his face and he wonders if he can lick the makeup off of his fingers without getting sick. Little boys have to clean up their messes.

But Daddy’s moving, untangling his hold from around Daddy’s shoulders. He wants to protest, but one of his daddy’s hands, big and warm, laces with his. “Come on, little one, let’s get you cleaned up.”

He can take off the armor by himself but Daddy starts unfastening the straps as soon as he has the water running in the tub, so he stands still until Daddy tells him to raise his arms and pulls the shirt over his head. The water is warm as he sinks beneath the thick layer of bubbles, and the shampoo that Daddy gently works into his hair doesn’t sting when it drips into his eyes. He wouldn’t let himself cry even if it did. Crying is what naughty boys do.

Daddy rubs a washcloth over his face, dipping it back into the water whenever the makeup builds up on the fabric. When the washcloth comes away clear, Daddy puts one hand on his shoulder, gently pushing him back against the wall of the tub. “No splashing,” Daddy warns, and he is beginning to nod when the hand with the washcloth slips back under the water and scrubs between his legs. 

There is a feeling deep in his stomach, sudden and funny and wrong, and he can’t help the jolt that goes through him or the way his legs move together under the bubbles.

“No splashing.” It is a scolding but a soft one, and he tells himself that the way his daddy’s nails dig into his leg, pushing his thighs apart, doesn’t really hurt because Daddy would never hurt him. His right hand grabs the side of the tub and his left hand stays straight out under the water, because he thinks that one would break the bathtub if it clenched and that would be bad and get him in lots of trouble.

He tries to be very still all over, though his hips want to squirm and he can’t keep his toes from curling. His body feels really warm and really good and he can almost ignore the ache in his tummy. His eyes slide shut, quiet whimpers and occasionally gasps of “Daddy” slipping out of his mouth as Daddy rubs him.

Every time he makes a noise he’s shushed, but some of the shushes are kisses from his daddy and he doesn’t think Daddy actually minds.

His head falls back and he can’t stop his hips from moving as he spills, hot in the cooling water, and the words “I love you, Daddy” are out of his mouth so fast he almost doesn’t have time to realize he doesn’t know what they mean.

He stands on shaky legs and lets Daddy towel him off. The towel is replaced on the rack by the time he’s sat down on the edge of the bathtub and the air is cold, but he doesn’t complain. Daddy runs a brush through his hair, gently working through the tangles without pulling. “You have such pretty hair, little one,” he murmurs. “You know, it’s almost long enough to put in pigtails.”

The giggle barely starts before he catches sight of himself in the mirror and the sound dies in his throat. It isn’t his hair that he notices, but his eyes. He can smile and laugh and say the things he must have been trained to say, and he can fool himself into thinking he feels affection, if only temporarily. But his eyes are not a child’s.

They aren’t a man’s eyes either. They stare back from the mirror glassy and empty, like a doll. A wind-up figurine pulled from the toy chest and set forth on a looping track. He is a thing that cannot comprehend love, let alone feel it, and this is a game he will not be allowed to forfeit.

The sound his mind makes when it breaks is like glass shards scraped over dry leaves. It’s almost pretty. He wonders if he always catches his reflection when they play, if he hears the shattering every time. Then he is being kissed and taken by the hand out of the bathroom, and he doesn’t fight, because he knows Daddy doesn’t stand for manipulations.

He is led to a locked door, and the bedroom behind it is full of bright colors and stuffed animals and doesn’t match the rest of the house at all. Sitting down on the bed between a purple elephant and a blue rabbit, he watches as Daddy rummages through the dresser. The stuffed animals are soft but faded, fur matted, old. Did Daddy have real children once, or have they been playing this game for so long?

“You want the race car pajamas or the dinosaurs?” Daddy asks.

“Dinosaurs.” They look warmer. He doesn’t like the cold.

Daddy helps him step into the pajama pants, but when he raises his arms for the shirt, he is gently pushed back onto the bed and Daddy’s hands are tickling up and down his sides. He goes tense when he’s made to lie down, the thought of restraints and pain he can barely remember causing his heart to race, but he laughs because what choice does he have?

When Daddy lets go he is panting for air, eyes watering. “Arms up, silly boy,” Daddy orders, and once the shirt is on he picks up the bunny from the bedspread, holding it tight to his chest. Does he always choose the rabbit and the dinosaurs? Does Daddy know what he’s going to say before he says it? There’s a look in his daddy’s eyes like he’s laughing at a secret joke, but he thinks that Daddy always looks that way.

“Thank you, Daddy,” he says because he isn’t cold anymore, and when Daddy reaches out to take his hand again, he knows to shift the bunny so his left hand has it while Daddy holds his right. The metal is cold and rigid and everything little boys aren’t.

“You’re welcome,” Daddy says, brushing the hair away from his eyes. All the tickling and squirming on the bed must have messed his hair up, but his daddy doesn’t seem to mind. “You’ve been so good today, little one. Daddy has a very special treat for his good little boy.”

“Thank you, Daddy,” he repeats.

Daddy leads him back down the stairs and into the kitchen and gives him his own chair. The very special treat is an expensive and grown-up food called steak, which Daddy says little boys aren’t meant to have because of how it’s cooked. But he’s been good enough to try it just this one time. Daddy cuts the steak, but he lets him have the fork and feed himself.

He isn’t used to eating or tasting, and he has to keep his nose from wrinkling as he does. The food sits heavy inside him and he wonders if it will make him sick and if he’ll be in trouble. Refusing it, he knows, will not end well. Presents from Daddy are not to be pushed aside. He offers a piece to the bunny because he somehow knows that a child would do that, and Daddy laughs.

“Rabbits don’t eat steak, sweetheart. Especially not stuffed rabbits.”

“Oh,” he says, and chews another piece slowly. He yawns, pressing a hand to his mouth.

Once he does, Daddy stands up and thankfully takes the plate away. “Looks like it’s somebody’s bedtime, huh? No arguments,” he adds, slipping the plate into the refrigerator. “Or you won’t get a story.”

When they return to the bedroom, Daddy sits reclined against the pillows and motions for him to sit on his lap. He does, but Daddy’s lap is growing hard and uncomfortable and he wriggles until he is beside him on the bed, his head resting against Daddy’s chest. His daddy smells like aftershave and laundry detergent and when he speaks, the words reverberate just like Daddy’s heartbeat. “What story do you want to hear?”

He doesn’t know any stories. What he does know is a warning, buried deep inside beyond his memories, of what’s coming when the story is done. He doesn’t want to play this game at all, beyond wanting to make Daddy happy, but he especially doesn’t want to play that part. Maybe if he’s very good and very quiet, he won’t have to. “Can you tell me your favorite story, Daddy?”

“You don’t have a favorite?” He can hear the laugh in Daddy’s voice. He doesn’t and Daddy knows it, and part of him wants to scream but he swallows back the noise. It scrapes up his throat to stay silent, but he only shakes his head and waits for Daddy’s story.

“Once there was a little boy,” Daddy begins.

He closes his eyes and leans his head closer into Daddy’s chest, drinking in the words.

“He was brave and strong and beautiful, but nobody realized it. The boy had a friend, you see, who took all the attention. His friend was a bad influence, and he got the little boy to run around with him and cause all kinds of trouble for the adults who were trying to make the town a better place. One day, he made the little boy get hurt and lose his arm, and he ran away without even checking to see if the boy was okay.”

His breath catches and he holds tighter onto Daddy. “What happened to the boy?”

“His daddy found him and saved his life.” Daddy’s hand strokes his hair. “And the little boy learned to listen to him and do as he said, and then the little boy helped fix all the problems his friend had caused. He became a hero and made his daddy very proud.”

“’S a good story,” he mumbles, words slurring as he fights back another yawn. “Thanks, Daddy.”

“You’re welcome, little one.”

He doesn’t stifle the next yawn, rubbing at one eye with the back of his hand. “Night night, Daddy,” he mutters, but Daddy’s hands cup either side of his face and raise his head back up. The motion wakes him fully and the sick feeling is back in his tummy.

“Just a few more minutes, sweetheart,” Daddy says. “You have to say goodnight properly.”

“’M sleepy, Daddy,” he tries. He can’t beg. Begging is whining and whining earns punishment. But he is cold even with the pajamas and his stomach aches and he doesn’t want to play anymore.

“Then say it fast.” He can hear the laugh in Daddy’s voice again and the hands move to the back of his head, pushing him down toward the zipper of Daddy’s pants. “Don’t you want to thank your Daddy for everything I gave you today?”

“No,” he says before he can catch himself.

There is a pause. Daddy’s hands tighten and they hurt. “No?”

He can’t speak, shaking.

He is so tense and numb, stunned quiet by his own defiance, that he almost doesn’t feel the backhand across his face. Daddy’s hand winds through his hair and tugs hard, pulling his head up. He doesn’t want to see the anger and disappointment in his daddy’s eyes, but he can’t look away.

A hand runs gently over the stinging skin of his cheek. Daddy shakes his head. He looks unhappy and it aches, in some conditioned but overwhelming way, to have caused his master hurt.

“You know Daddy loves you very much, don’t you?”

Love is as foreign a concept as choice. He doesn’t know what love is. It’s possible that he is loved—he thinks he wants to be—and he nods.

“Don’t you love your Daddy?”

He knows the answer is yes. The words are automatic, but it’s as if the broken pieces of his mind have trickled down to his throat and blocked his ability to speak.

“Daddy takes care of you and gives you nice things and keeps you safe. And all Daddy wants in return is not to have to beg for affection. That’s not too much to ask, is it?”

“Sorry, Daddy,” he whispers, because he is, and he thinks he hates himself for it.

“You understand why Daddy’s disappointed when you act this way, don’t you? Daddy knows you can behave better than that. Now can’t you be a good boy and show Daddy how much you love him?”

It isn’t until Daddy’s brushing away the tears on his face that he realizes he’s started to cry. He bites his lip, not needing to look his daddy in the eyes to know that he’s made him very mad. Little boys who cry to try and manipulate their daddies are little boys who are in so much trouble.

Daddy sighs, yanking his hair and pulling him from the bed onto the floor. He doesn’t dare raise his head and when Daddy stands up, he can hear the sound of his belt coming off. “What did Daddy tell you about crying, little one?”

“N-not to,” he stammers, fighting to stop the tears as his pajama bottoms are tugged down. He is scared and humiliated and most of all he is angry, angry at himself for being so weak and angry at Daddy for making him play this game, making him _need_ to play because it’s the only way to feel love, and he doesn’t even know what love _is_ but he knows that he craves it.

“And what are you doing?”

“Crying.”

The blows across the back of his thighs are rapid and stinging. He bites his tongue to keep from shouting, braces himself up with the metal arm. He is breaking inside, heart splintering like his mind has, and it hurts worse than the belt. Daddy loves him, Daddy takes care of him, and it’s his mission to love back. He can’t disobey a mission and he can’t hate Daddy no matter how much the games hurt and he is going to pieces failing to fulfill an objective he can’t even understand. The tears won’t stop no matter how bad and manipulative they are.

The belt moves from his thighs to his back when he won’t stop crying, and more than once the buckle catches him, opening up gashes that will be gone by tomorrow but that will hurt until the chair takes them away. The blood stops the tears, as if they’ve redirected away from his eyes and out of his veins, and Daddy sits back on the bed while he huddles on the floor, trying to steady his breathing.

Finish the mission, he thinks, and with most missions that’s easy, but this one hurts so much even when he’s succeeding.

The silence ticks by, each second pressing down on him, and he can almost feel the sting of Daddy’s disappointment licking at the edge of his wounds. There is no point in stubbornness, because he is a pawn in this game, not a player. He can stay on the floor all night and earn more pain and nothing will be gained from it. Nothing but that childish need to defy.

The fragments of his mind slide together, vivid as the view through a kaleidoscope, and he thinks for that instant that the defiance would be its own reward.

But the knowing shatters the picture. Not because he knows there’s no choice, but because he knows the pain of resisting would outweigh any punishment. He can’t love, can’t trust, can’t even _want,_ but the mockeries of such emotions have been programmed deep into his mind and the hurt that they cause is all too real. Imprinted like an animal. He is Daddy’s and he needs him and to deliberately upset him is to be torn apart from the inside out.

He raises his head, noting the black plastic gaze of the rabbit before he turns to his daddy. He remembers his reflection and thinks his eyes are just as dead. “I’m sorry, Daddy,” he says, and over the grinding in his mind he can hear the sincerity in his voice.

Daddy sighs again. The noise breaks his heart. “Tell me why you’re sorry.”

“Because I was bad and I wouldn’t show you I love you after everything you do for me and I cried to try and make you sad.” He looks back down at the floor. “I’m really sorry, Daddy.”

“I forgive you,” Daddy says, even though he doesn’t deserve it.

“Are you still mad at me?”

“Daddy’s never mad at you, sweetheart. You make me sad sometimes when you’re bad on purpose, but Daddy never stops loving you. You know that, don’t you?”

He nods, but Daddy still sounds so sad and it hurts to hear it. He pulls his pants back up, tugs the hem of his shirt down, and climbs onto the bed as his broken brain tries to think of something to make things better. Words spring to mind, words that can’t be his own because he’d never have thought of them.

How many times have they parroted this scene?

“Daddy?” he whispers softly, and when Daddy turns to him he lowers his head, shoulders tensed. “Daddy, can I tell you a secret?”

Daddy brushes the hair out of his eyes and when he dares to look up, Daddy doesn’t look so disappointed anymore. “What is it, little one?”

“Daddy, there’s a boy I really like.” He is still whispering and his face feels hot. “But I don’t know what to do.”

“Oh?” The laugh is back in his daddy’s voice and he is pulled closer. “Tell me what he’s like.”

“He’s really smart and nice and grown up and takes care of me.” He lays his head on Daddy’s shoulder. “And I really like him, but I don’t know how to say it.”

“Just do something you’d know he’d like, silly.” Daddy kisses his forehead. “Don’t be shy.”

“Daddy?” he whispers. “It’s you.”

“I know, little one.” Daddy hugs him tight and it makes his back ache, but Daddy loves him and he made Daddy smile and everything will be okay. “And you know what would make your Daddy really happy, don’t you?”

He nods, shifting his position. The ache is back in his tummy but he can ignore it. “Daddy? Can I touch you?”

“Sweetheart, you know you don’t have to ask.”

Daddy is hard and big when he undoes the zipper and when he lowers his head and kisses, the sound Daddy makes feels good in his chest, like a hug or a pat on the head. He puts his right hand on Daddy and licks above that hand, slow and careful and listening to the noises to be sure he isn’t messing up.

He takes Daddy in his mouth as Daddy begins stroking his hair, and his daddy’s hips jerk, gagging him. He tries to breathe, refuses to let his eyes tear up. He would be such a bad boy to cry now. Sliding his hand up and down, he flicks his tongue, listening for the places that make Daddy gasp and moan and returning to them over and over.

Daddy stops petting his hair, hands gripping his head and guiding the pace as he bobs up and down. He lets his hand slide away, focuses on sucking and breathing in spite of the way his head is slammed into Daddy’s thrusting hips. He won’t let Daddy feel his teeth no matter how rough the movement, even when his hands clench from the lack of air. He tries to straighten the metal fingers so they won’t gouge into the mattress.

He can hear words, stammered and out of breath. Some are incoherent, but he can make out “Good boy” and “Daddy loves you” and “ _fuck_ ” and he thinks that last one is a word little boys can’t repeat.

Daddy is forcing his head up and down faster and faster and he doesn’t dare close his eyes for fear tears will slide out. There is wet heat in his throat and Daddy lets go, panting. He swallows, sits up, licks his lips. He tucks Daddy back into his pants and pulls the zipper up, and once he’s done his daddy’s shaking hands wrap around him and hug him tight.

“My perfect little snowflake,” Daddy says, kissing his cheek. “Do you know what a good boy you are?”

“I love you, Daddy.” He has been good and that swells in his heart and nearly makes up for the ever present screaming in his mind.

“Daddy loves you more, little one. Daddy loves you more than anything in the world.”

He smiles and hugs back. In the morning, he knows, he’ll have another bath and the armor will go back on. He’ll be taken back to the doctors and either frozen or wiped or sent out on another mission. Daddy will be Pierce again, and he will be an asset. But for now his daddy is here and he loves him, and for now this is the closest he can feel to happiness and affection and he lets himself be held as he drifts off to sleep.

*

Pierce wants a mission report but the asset’s mind isn’t there to deliver it. His thoughts are still on the causeway, on the mission that became a man, the man who gave him a name. He knew that face, those eyes. He _knew,_ the way he knows how to fire a weapon he’s never held before or knows how to gain a master’s approval, but this is deeper than even that. This is buried so far and hidden inside him that he wonders if it was programmed at all.

It isn’t until a hand snaps into his face that he is pulled back to the present.

He stares at Pierce, desperate to understand. He has never felt this way before, never truly felt at all, and he can’t grasp what is happening. A part of him wants to hide this knowledge, shelter it and keep it safe from handlers and doctors. But he doesn’t know what this is, what he would even be protecting. Pierce will know. Pierce is his master and he will be able to clarify and force the asset’s world to make sense again, so the asset speaks.

“The man on the bridge…who was he?”

_Daddy, there’s a boy…I don’t know what to do._

**Author's Note:**

> [](https://www.flickr.com/photos/152680774@N07/35562190130/in/dateposted-public/)


End file.
